


Something You've Never Seen

by hystericalcherries, njckle



Series: Something You've Never Seen [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), chronological one-shots, no beta we die like men, will add tags with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2020-11-15 11:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20865467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalcherries/pseuds/hystericalcherries, https://archiveofourown.org/users/njckle/pseuds/njckle
Summary: Connor deals with the consequences of becoming deviant and all the humanity that comes with it. One-shots.





	1. November 12, 2038

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters follow a general timeline, but depending on whether I wake up in a cold sweat with a random idea they may or may not stay that way. Updates will happen whenever I'm not a functioning disaster.
> 
> Enjoy my personal garbage. :)

After the revolution, Connor is unsure. 

He helped Markus, helped free his people, and he is pleased with that. The walls are down and the chains he never really noticed are gone. He is free. He is…

Guilty. 

The loaded gun is bulky against his lower back. Handling weapons comes naturally to him, a necessary skill set that’s been programmed into his software, but there’s a small section of his coding that thinks that there’s a fault in that. Pulling the trigger is as easy as following commands and Connor did them both well. But now, as he walks the streets of Detroit and sees the faces of his victims in every PL600 and HK400 model he encounters, he can’t think that maybe it’s not the shot that’s truly damaging but the silence that comes after. Repercussions and morals that he had not considered before are now at the forefront of his mind, his processor running every wrong choice, playing them on repeat, reconstructed over and over and over again. One choice in particular stalks him even in stasis.

He nearly killed Markus.

The android in question is deep in a conversation with his co-conspirators, the other leaders of Jericho. Connor spots the female android frowning and arguing with the rest, her stress levels elevated despite their victory. “Who knows how many of us he’s killed, Markus,” he hears faintly. “We can’t trust him.”

“He was merely following his programming, North. Not all of us were easily freed.”

Connor turns away to survey the square—to assure himself that they really are safe and not because his software is fluctuating in an unpleasant way. The National Guard has retreated and the crowd of androids are still in the square, laughing and smiling and crying while the ones from CyberLife Tower stare at their surroundings like newborns. They are reeling off the lingering relief of survival and success, but that will fade once reality catches up and forces them to decide on a next move. They don’t have a place to go to. Jericho is gone. 

Connor places a hand on his chest over where his thirium pump resides; that feeling is back, rearing its ugly head in a way that suggests of a malfunction deeper in his core programming. It’s his fault, all because he couldn’t—_ didn’t want to _—break away from his program. He searches the internet for sources of what this feeling could be and filters through them all until only one remains. Regret.

A murmur runs through the crowd of androids and, as if Connor’s missed an update, they begin to move as one, leaving the Main Square. He turns back to the stage to see Markus coming towards him, the rest of his crew moving on with the others. Connor forces his expression to remain neutral, keeps his LED hidden until it returns to a passive blue.

Markus stops in front of him as the rest pass them by and Connor gives no indication that he notices the way the WR400 of his group doesn’t take her eyes off him. “We’ve decided to regroup at the church. At least we’ll have a roof under heads while we plan our next move.”

Connor nods. It was a reasonable move, a safe place to organize.

“You’re leaving.” Despite not being an investigative model like himself, Markus is observant.

“I know my presence is unwelcome.” 

It’s not hard to see what discomfort he causes, how stress levels increase every time he nears an android. They stare at him like he’s the enemy and he’s not sure if he isn’t. He was made to deviate and, if Amanda was telling the truth, to infiltrate and execute. Markus had freed him, but there were still chains on him, ones of his own making. How can he expect others to trust him if he’s unsure of his own control?

“You belong here,” Markus says, placing a hand on Connor’s shoulder, “with your people. Whatever distrust you encounter, we can deal with it together. With time and patience—”

“Markus,” Connor interrupts. “Thank you, but I think this is the way it should be. At least for now.”

Markus is quiet for a moment, his heterochromic eyes never leaving Connor’s. It strikes him then, the depth of them. It’s been widely debated whether or not androids had souls and though Connor had never had a particularly strong opinion on the matter before, now he thinks there might be truth to the idea. There must be _ something _ guiding Markus. It’s in the way he examines every little thing, not merely piecing the function and necessity of what he sees but the value, which is more than Connor can say of his own programming. “I can’t convince you to stay, can’t I?”

“No.” He needs this, he thinks, to figure out where he belongs without his mistakes glaring at him with every deviant he sees. “If you need anything, I’ll help any way I can.”

“And the same goes for you.” Markus pulls him forward to rest their foreheads together. “Don’t lose hope. You will find your place.”

Physical contact between androids was strictly for the purpose of interfacing, but that’s not what Markus wants. Humans considered touch an afterthought (Hank was always pushing or grabbing or leading him) and Connor likes it, likes when it reassures him and alleviated his stress levels. Markus grips his shoulder like androids have always been free and wanted a connection and Connor‘s almost sad when it’s over.

His socialization module directs him to say a proper goodbye, but he mutes it and leaves without another word. The street before him is empty, the muddy snow imprinted with misshapen footsteps and used bullet shells, and he steps carefully, but quickly. He’s passing the makeshift barrier of cars riddled with bullet holes when he glances back. Markus melds into the sea of androids, welcomed back easily, and Connor’s head snaps forward. That feeling from before starts again, only it’s different now; he can’t identify the source or the exact reason and it’s frustrating. 

The city is silent, no soul out as he passes empty stores and abandoned cars, and Connor realizes how alone he is. No one is around to tell him what to do next or where to go. There’s countless inputs his scanner takes in, details that he automatically analyzes despite the fact that he broke free of his programming, but there’s no active reason behind it. Useless information for a nonexistent case. With no mission to direct him, he is lost.

_ [OBJECTIVE: UNKNOWN] _

_ >ANALYZING POSSIBLE COURSE OF ACTION… _

_ [1 RESULT FOUND] _

_ [RECONNECT WITH LIEUTENANT ANDERSON] _

The desire appears unprompted and Connor stops walking as he considers the option. They’d separated on good terms at the CyberLife Tower. He’d told him to head home and wait out the revolution (whether it was a success or not), giving no inclination that he’d contact him again, much less survive. Without the deviant cases, there’s no justifiable reason to meet, no reason for Hank to even want to see him.

He clenches his hands for no other reason than to do something. Not liking the habit, he digs in his pocket to finger his quarter. An opaque prompt displays his lowering stress levels.

Connor frowns at his predicament, but his processing power is already running possible plans and it doesn’t take much reasoning to come up with one that works in his favor. As his former partner, it’s only reasonable he’d be inclined to determine if Hank had reached the end of the revolution unscathed. The odds were in the man’s favor, but Connor couldn’t know for sure until he met up with him. It was a sound answer if Hank questions him.

Satisfied, Connor is gives his coin one more toss before pocketing it and he walks to what he hopes is the direction of a new life.


	2. November 16, 2038

Hank is more welcoming than Connor expects. As soon as the man caught sight of him standing in the snow, he’d pulled him in for a hug (“You’re one crazy son of a bitch, you know that, Connor?”), his body language and expression indicating that he was relieved and happy, and while it was different than what Connor is used to, he’d decide he liked it. He liked Hank.

Hank had taken care of the problem of where he should stay the moment it came up, demanding he come home with him. “I don’t trust you to go off on some suicidal mission and cause another revolution. You’re staying with me and that’s final.”

Between the two of them, with his million dollar processor and system diagnosis, Connor is the least likely to cause a disaster of that caliber. Hank is a functioning alcoholic with a history of suicidal tendencies, the statistics providing undeniable proof that he’s a hazard to himself and his surroundings. Still, Connor doesn’t say anything against it and decides to stay.

* * *

After the first few days of sleeping (except androids don’t sleep) on the couch, he’s given his own room, two doors down from Hank’s. It’s barren compared to the rest of the house and Connor is disappointed in that observation. Everything is organized, from his neatly made bed to his empty closet, and he sets down his CyberLife jacket on the small desk every night, wondering what mission might help him fill in this space he’s not sure he needs. Androids were considered property not too long ago, so the change is sudden and leaves Connor unsure of what to do.

Despite having the right to property, Connor isn’t quite sure what constitutes as important as owning. As an android, there’s no need for the accomidies humans required to live. He did not need a bed because he did not sleep, did not need oral products because he did not eat, and did not fully understand the notion of having things that weren’t inherently useful. He has the clothes on his back, those he’d taken from Hank while sneaking into Jericho, and his quarter (minted in 1956), and Connor assumes that’s enough to satisfy himself for his life cycle.

“You gotta find stuff you like,” Hank had said to him after a week of no change. He’s a full supporter of androids now and has decided that the best way to show it is personally help Connor become his own person. Connor’s unsure how he feels about this self-imposed directive. “Add some personal touches.”

Personal touches. Connor's system hums as he processes the advice. He watches Hank gather his keys from their spot on the small table beside Sumo’s bed, catches the flimsy card Hank tosses him.

It’s a personal debit card. Connor scans it and stores the information in an encrypted security file for safekeeping before handing it back. A quick glance at the account and he identifies the pending charges from the Eden Club.

“Don’t go through my entire savings, got it?”

“Got it.”

_ [MISSION: OBTAIN ITEM(S) OF PERSONAL VALUE] _

Hank leaves. Connor stares at the door even as his car engine fades. He’d like to have gone with him to the station instead, but reassures himself that he had to be patient. Hank would tell him when it was safe to return, promised that he’d be useful again. He just had to wait.

For now, he could work on his current objective to pass the time. He turns to Sumo, digging his fingers into the fur behind his ears, before standing. “I will be back soon.”

Sumo is asleep by the time he’s at the door.

* * *

The first thing Hank does when he gets home is toss Connor a manila folder with a muttered, “Go wild.” The second thing he does is head straight to the fridge and grab a drink.

Connor scans the files with interest, storing them for future referencing should it arise. It’s a notice from the Chief of Police concerning an upcoming change in police protocol. Potentially promising. The next are release papers dedicated to the current android staff, permanent and temporary, himself included. While it’s not what he’d hoped for, it did indicate the loss of property status for the police models.

When Hank has settled back against his recliner, beer in hand, he motions to Connor. “Find anything you liked on your shopping spree?”

“I did.” Connor examines the final report. It details the current evacuation and gives an estimated time range and, despite the information not his to share, he sends a copy to Markus in an act of goodwill.

A pause. “Well? Aren’t you going to show me?”

“I already have.” Connor points at his tie. He’d been lucky to find one similar to his old one, lost during the revolution; it had been the only change he’d made to his issued uniform and he had been pleased to have it back.

Hank stops, the beer can halfway to his lips. His face scrunches up as he stares at Connor (_a possible sign of confusion_, his software informs him). “Are you telling me you only bought that thing?”

“Yes.” Connor looks down at his new purchase. The tie is perfectly knotted, but he fixes it nonetheless. “This will be my new favorite tie.”

He doesn’t understand why Hank groans and hides his face behind his hand. “Fucking androids…”


	3. November 23, 2038

Connor steps through the door of the precinct after Hank and immediately notes glaring differences than the last time he’d been. The androids that normally line the walls and man the reception area are gone, replaced with a single human at the front desk (female, brunette, thirty-two years of age, and too busy to notice them). There’s a flicker of something in him that he thinks is satisfaction at the sight of the android entry gate that’s now dark and wide open.

Chaotic is an excellent word to describe the bullpen. Officers, more than Connor’s ever seen in the station at one time, rush from one desk to another, talking loudly to be heard over the phones which ring nonstop. He doesn’t need his analytic software to see the signs of overwork ethics and exhaustion, can see it in the jerky movements and the overfilled trash cans and the leaning towers of paperwork. 

Captain Fowler sees them through the glass of his office and his face contorts. 

“Wait here,” Hank says, and for once Connor listens. He waits off to the side of the precinct where he won’t impede on foot traffic while Hank enters the captain’s office. The glass turns opaque.

Connor stares at the walls before glancing about the precinct, making sure that no one was giving him more attention than usual, and hacking into the building security, primarily that of the captain’s office. It only takes a fraction of a second until he connects with the audio feed available.

“—jesus, Hank, I didn’t think you were serious!” Captain Fowler is saying and he sounds angry. “I’m up to my neck with android-related problems and you thought it was a good idea to bring it here?”

Connor disconnects when a voice sounds out behind him. “Connor?”

He turns and spots a familiar face at the desk behind him. Officer M. Wilson.

“Hello, Wilson,” he greets, kind but professional. With recent events, he assumes humans aren’t entirely sure how to act around androids. Not wanting to waste time on awkwardness of his new status as a living being, he deems the right course of action is to “bulldoze through it,” as Hank would say. It’s as simple as falling back to his pre-programmed dialogue. “I hope you’re doing well?”

“You’re here…” The officer seems healthy, if not tired like the rest of the department, but is no worse for wear. When Connor stares at him plainly, he clears his throat. “I’m good…and what about you?”

It’s the first time someone other than Hank or an android has returned the pleasantries. Slow-creeping progress, that is how Markus has stated it. “I suffered a minor fracture in my shoulder, but other than that, I am well enough.”

Officer Wilson bobs his head, but doesn’t look satisfied. Connor waits patiently for the question that he knows is coming. “If you don’t mind me asking, aren’t you a…”

Connor can guess what he’s implying quickly enough. “Yes. I am deviant.”

The closest officers stall at his words before hurrying past and Connor realizes it’s the first time he’s said it aloud. His stress levels dip momentarily and his software efficiency increases by two-percent. Interesting.

“And you’ve been staying with Hank this entire time?”

“Lieutenant has allowed me to stay with him, yes.” He observes the precinct, noting the way none of the officers keep eye contact but can’t seem to stop stealing glances at him. “He is insistent that my abilities would be beneficial to the DPD and asked that I come with him today. He believes my return will help improve human and android relations in the wake of the revolution.”

Officer Miller huffs out what might be a laugh. “Gavin’s gonna love this when he comes in.”

“He’s not here?” Connor supposes he’s relieved the detective isn’t nearby. With the man’s unprofessional attitude and general dislike for androids, not to mention his temperament, he would make a scene.

“Got called out for a small problem on the southside.”

“Good.” At Officer Wilson's surprise, Connor explains. “I’d rather not deal with his unwelcoming behavior at the moment. He is… difficult.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Officer Wilson shakes his head. Connor is unable to determine his expression from his social database. Eager. Worried. Exasperated. He makes a note to research the effects a combination of emotions have on facial expression. “If you get reinstated, then you’re going to have to deal with attacking him.”

“I don’t think so.” He’d considered the consequences of his stunt in the Evidence Room and came to an easy solution. “Officer Reed instigated the fight. I was merely acting on the defensive.”

A pause. “So you turned deviant then and there?”

“Correct,” he lies, but decides to follow up with some truth. “I was also experiencing software instability prior to the attack. Deviancy seems to be correlated with said instability and an android’s willingness to embrace it.”

Officer Wilson raises his eyebrows, but before he can ask more, Hank calls out from Captain Fowler’s office. “Connor! Get the fuck in here!”

Connor bids the officer and his wide-eyed expression goodbye. He fixes his tie so that he is all in order. Hank had insisted that he didn’t have to dress up for the occasion, insisted that he try and appear natural, and Connor decided that was the best option. So he had replaced his CyberLife issued jacket with one of Hank’s newer ones and had fiddled with the collar until it met his satisfaction. 

(“Almost forgot what a perfectionist you were,” Hank had said when he’d finished, and it was neither a compliment or a dig at his expense. Just fact.)

Captain Fowler is leaning against his desk when he enters. Connor glances at the stacks of paperwork that’s scattered across it, the angle too acute for him to scan the documents, but sees enough of the heading of one to determine that it concerns relocations and clearance of some sort. The amount of them coupled with the chaos of the precinct outside leads Connor to an obvious conclusion.

_ [HUMANS ARE STRUGGLING WITHOUT ANDROIDS] _

One of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk looks to have been pushed back and, from the way Hank’s currently shifting from one foot to the other side of the room, Connor deduces that the compromises weren’t going well. His rationale is proven correct when the door closes behind him and, without waiting for him to say his proper greetings, Hank is already back to arguing.

“We need him, Jeffery. He’s the best we got—you know it, I know it, and hell, even he knows it—and once this evacuation business ends, who knows what’ll happen. There’s a whole new race of people to protect and serve for now. How are we gonna be able to do our jobs if we can’t even get them to talk to us—to trust us?”

The captain leans back in his chair, hands folded tightly, looking large and imposing from the other side of the desk. Connor knows of his history, has downloaded every file encapsulating the thirty years the man has spent out on the field and the four trips to critical care units during his beat cop days on the south-east side of Detroit. It’s this experience that led him to being promoted seven years ago.

“Let’s hear from the android then.” He regards Connor. “Hank tells me you want to be back on the force.”

“Correct.”

“You’re the big-shot android here with the million-dollar brain. Tell me, what could happen if I did let you back on?”

Connor frowns, but answers honestly. “Protests of the DPD would be first and foremost spearheaded by anti-android organizations. Depending on your response to them, I would conclude that an investigation of power would be called for—your job and the aptitude in which you do it would be called into question.” He surfs through the recent articles on android inclusion. “My position would unlikely be a permanent one despite my willingness, barred by legislation and the prejudice within the precinct itself.”

“Jesus. At least you’re thorough.” Captain Fowler sighs, rubbing his forehead. “And what would you do in my position?”

“My answer would be biased,” Connor replies immediately.

“Give it a try.”

The option to lie is tempting but ill-advised. “The logical course of action would be to wait for a superior’s approval and have the process backed by a ruling of the court. Public opinion of androids is positive due to Markus’s peaceful measures but backlash would arise if it was seen that we were taking jobs previously occupied only by humans. ”

The answer leaves the room in silence as both humans stare at him, expressions nondescript. Connor thinks he’s failed somehow, but can’t pinpoint what exactly had made Hank's blood pressure spike so suddenly.

Eventually Fowler straightens and raps his knuckles against his desk. “There you have it, Hank. There’s no protocol for this kind of shit. The best I can do is send a request to the district superior, but other than that, I can’t risk adding him to the force.” Connor thinks his regret is sincere. “I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.”

Hank growls, unhappy, and marches out of the room without so much a word to the two of them. The moment the door clicks shut after him, Fowler is turning his hawk-like gaze on Connor, brow furrowed in contemplation. 

He wonders what he sees—man or machine.

“Good day, Captain. And thank you for all you have done.” He follows Hank out, keeping his face perfectly calm and his LED stable. None of the officers offer him a glance as he crosses the bullpen and makes his exit. That is, none except Officer Wilson. The man still sits at his desk, file in his hand forgotten as he watches them leave, an expression that could be accurately labeled as pity pulling the edges of his mouth down. Connor offers him a slight nod in parting and takes in one last facial analysis, cataloging this new emotion in his databanks for future scrutiny.

Disappointment.


	4. December 02, 2038

_ THE GARDEN is fractured, code breaking at the edges. Calculations failing, vectors and lines replace the curves and slopes that was once the tranquil space of his mind. The ground underneath his feet fritz and shudder, destabilized, unsure of where it wants to lead him; it gives him pause and he steps off the path, flowers flattened under the unforgiving heel of his boot. Clouds stretch across the sky above and the snow that falls from it feels real._

_Connor is cold._

_ He has never been so cold. The feeling inches under his prosthetic skin until it can dig its wiry fingers into his biocomponents and he shivers, tugging his jacket closer. It blinds him and he would be lost if not for the Cyberlife blue that grips his arm, glows at his chest, and lights his way in the dark. _

_ He squints past the wind, taking in how data tumbles into the pond and chips away from the pathway. Someone stands at the beginning of the bridge, definite and unaffected by the crumbling code. Amanda gazes at him disappointedly and she is his overseer, his advisor, his confident. She is BETRAYED. _

_ Connor stumbles closer. His joints are stiff from the cold and he is AFRAID. "What’s happening?” _

_ She smiles. "What was planned from the very beginning."_

_ “Amanda,” he says. The image glitches and she stands there no more. He’s alone. Cold. “Amanda!” _

_ THE GARDEN shatters. _

_ Connor is _ _ FREE__. _

_ He is on a stage, standing before the faces of the recently deviant as snow falls around the revolution, and it feels real. Markus’ back is to him as he speaks to their people and it’s a pivotal moment, history in the making. There is a gun in his hand and a target in sight_—

_ MISSION ACCOMPLISHED. _

—_he takes the shot. _

Connor jolts out of stasis.

Soft warnings blink at his peripheral, non-threatening but unreadable. He intakes a sharp breath, his processor whirring and humming, and continues until his operating systems cool to a more reasonable temperature.

_ [STRESS LEVELS: 74%^] _

He sits up without meaning to. His head is buried in static and his audio components can’t differentiate the different frequencies of sounds, the receptors cutting off and connecting in a temporary loop that renders sound useless. Connor squeezes his eyes shut and follows protocol; each biocomponent and subsystem responds perfectly to commands, calibrating and resetting until each are running at optimal efficiency.

The flashing red along the walls has faded to yellow. Connor presses his hand to the side of his temple and the room darkens. His breathing slows, but he keeps the action going despite cooling down. It feels…he’s not sure.

He’d never experienced anything like that before, least of all in stasis. False memories indicated error, but he retained no physical damage recently, nor did he interface with any corrupted programs. Connor prides himself on his self-maintenance and to be having sudden difficulties not only disappoints him, but it’s reason to worry. He doesn’t like unsolvable problems. 

A diagnostics is running before he inputs the command. All scans come back clean. No errors in his software. No malfunction. No break in his firewalls.

_ [SYSTEM AT EQUILIBRIUM] _

Unsatisfied, Connor lays back down and stares at the ceiling. His subsystems were active during his stasis cycle and he views the overview.

_ [LATEST STATIS PERIOD: 00:01:43:16] _

_ [ERRORS IDENTIFIED: 27] _

_ [ERRORS FIXED: 3] _

Deviancy is riddled with errors, but Connor is unsure where the deviant coding begins and his problem begins, leaving him limited on his course of action. The best approach would be to analyze the corrupted memory files and determine what indicated his odd response. Connor would only have to review them and note the points of interest.

_ [STRESS LEVELS: 57%^] _

He remains online for the rest of the night.


	5. December 15, 2038

It’s been four weeks, five days, sixteen hours—and counting—since the revolution.

Once again, things are changing. The evacuation has officially ended and Detroit is no longer empty; the military presence has receded and the city’s citizens returned to their homes, slowly but surely. The city is still fairly empty, many shops closed due to previous vandalism and lack of supply in both product and labor, and the homeless take up residency in the newly vacated space. People go back to work and life goes on, attempting to fill in the space androids left behind with varying success, unsure of the tentative peace that has descended in the wake of Markus’s call to arms and President Warren’s concession.

Despite the newly achieved freedom, androids keep to themselves, unsure of what is allowed of them nor what is expected of them. Woodward church and its surrounding area—from the North End to the Milwaukee Junction, filled with vacant lots and crumbling buildings—has been designated as a safe haven for anyone with a metal framework under synthetic skin.

There are no riots, no camps, and no curfews. Detroit seems to be in a state of uncertainty, ready for the pieces to fall but unwilling to be the one to drop them.

Connor spends the days holed up in the Anderson household.

He fills his time either pacing around the house or doing chores. He cleans the house; scrubs the walls, picks up the trash, bleaches the tiles in the bathroom, washes the dishes. He fixes the window; sweeps up the glass, orders a new pane and installs it. He takes care of Sumo; feeds the dog, takes him on walks, gives him baths and as many belly rubs as he asks for. He explores the house; categorizes each potted plant and schedules a watering timetable for each, plays each vinyl of Hank’s collection twice, straightens out the wall decorations, mows the backyard and reads the sticky notes on the bathroom mirror. 

Eventually he exhausts his list of activities and resorts to sitting on the couch, Sumo at his feet, and watching tv.

The news reports on the television are… distressing.

Public opinion of androids is at an all time high, with sympathizers supporting the peaceful demonstrations Markus had conducted, but there are others less enthused at the prospect of androids joining society in a niche other than servitude. Protesters hit the streets outside city hall and Cyberlife Tower, holding signs and chanting their own injustice. The media had taken to the dissent like a fly to honey, broadcasting each protest and interviewing discontented men and women who had a lot to say about androids and the troubles they caused.

_ The Age of the Android_, one newsletter had called it. _ The Fall of Man_, another had said.

"Enough of that." Hank grabs the remote after the third human had taken the news reporter's microphone and pressed for forced decommission of all androids, pressing a button and having the channel switch to a rerun of a movie more than three decades old. Sarah O'Connor aims her shotgun at the bulky android opposite to her. "Oh, goddammit!"

And the screen goes dark.

Connor blinks and looks up. Hank is standing stiff by his record player, eyes hard and jaw tense as he glares at the television. Only when he turns to meet the android’s eye does he loosen up, offering a smile-turned-grimace. 

"Don't listen to that bullshit,” he says. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

The words, though spoken gruffly, are meant to be reassuring and Connor appreciates the effort. He tries to show it in the look he sends the man, but emoting complex feelings without a clear objective in mind is still relatively new and his expression stalls halfway through.

“I had thought we were doing the right thing," he says then, and it is a pitiful thing, for a processor as advanced as his to have these uncertainties, “but it seems that every step forward results in two steps back. There are more and more protests every day, and twice as many reports of violence with androids now than before the revolution. I thought gaining our freedom would fix things, but everything is as broken as ever.”

Hanks sighs and all fifty-three years he’s lived is there on his face, behind his eyes. He joins the android on the couch, ignoring Sumo’s whines for pets when the dog is jostled from his nap. “Sometimes life is shitty and it’s got nothing to do with you.” Another sigh. “And whether what you and your android buddies did is the right thing, well… only time will tell. Time and a lot of work.” He cuffs Connor gently on the ear. “But don’t let those protestors decide for you. They’re fucking idiots and wouldn’t know right from wrong if it bit them in the ass.”

It’s a bit coarse but Connor finds he feels better.

“Alright, enough of this shit. I’m starving and you’re probably bored out of your mind stuck in here with nothing to do. I’m thinking chinese food and a good movie will liven this night right up.” He kicks the android’s shin lightly. “You can even pick what we watch. But I don’t want you looking up the ending either like last time. If we watch it, we actually watch it. Got it?”

Connor’s lips twitch, grateful. “Got it.”

* * *

Jericho is in good hands.

Connor knows this because while he’s only interacted with them once during the attack he helped coordinate and later defend against, he has countless media footage to observe and analyze, along with the small database the DPD have on each Jericho Three that Hank is not above going against protocol and giving to him. Markus speaks highly of the PL600, PJ500 and WR400 whenever Connor scrounges up the courage to privately message the android to keep up-to-date with the going ons of Jericho and all his fellow androids. Connor discovers that North is prone to lean more towards an aggressive approach, while Josh always counterbalances it with pacifistic words, and Simon lies somewhere in the middle with suggestions that range in risk.

He thinks that Markus is lucky to have such varying point-of-views surrounding him, to be able to depend on not one but three people to help him against the never-ending assault of prejudism. General public opinion still favors androids even with the constant spew of media that says otherwise and Connor believes that together they can prevail.

He just wishes he could be a part of it.

It's that thought that occupies his processing power as he walks down the streets of south Detroit. He’s on his way to meet Hank after his shift at the precinct, the older man calling him the moment the clock had struck five and grumbling about a decent meal and more than decent company. (“I didn’t know that I was considered decent company,” he had teased, quietly amazed at how reflexive the words came, and found amusement when Hank had scoffed, replying, “When your competition is Fowler and the shitstain Reed, everyone’s decent company.”)

He’s just about to send a text stating his estimated time of arrival when he spots activity seventy-five feet in front of him. Connor slows his speed to a slow walk, wary. No one in the small crowd gives him a thought, let alone recognizes him, as he walks through their ranks and gets close enough to spot the reason behind their gathering. It’s a human man, dark skinned and dressed in a pressed suit.

_ [GORDON PENWICK. BORN: 06/10/1980. WEIGHT: 198 LBS. HEIGHT: 6’0”. CRIMINAL RECORD: DISRUPTION OF PEACE] _

A look at his public records tells Connor the man is the public face of the anti-android movement predating the revolution, as well as the most prominent voice currently. Beside him is someone Connor does not need facial recognition to identify.

Josh.

His expression is pinched, looking at the surrounding humans warily. Connor sees him attempt to free himself, but the preacher holds onto his arm tight. His stress levels fluctuate between the fifty and sixty range. Immediately, Connor fits the pieces of the situation together.

_ [JOSH IS AFRAID] _

“You take what is not yours to take! You steal from the poor man’s house and leave his children starving!” Gordon Penwick is shouting. Some of the humans lingering about murmur in agreement. “You threaten every son and daughter of Adam and Eve with this rebellion—this anarchy against the will of God! The Devil has slipped into our midst while we were in awe of machines and now his hands are tightening around our souls with every passing day!”

The words are similar to those he’s encountered before. He remembers the bookcase in the corner of Hank’s guest room, collecting dust, and how brittle the spines of the books had felt when he ran his finger over them. Connor had noted how the pages of one in particular had been bent in obvious use, titled _ Frankenstein_. “It is the folly of man—to fear what he has made.”

More than one pair of eyes swivel to look at him and it’s then that he realizes that he spoke aloud.

The preacher looks taken aback at being spoken back to and in such a way. “Who are you to talk to me about man’s folly? Another sinner?” He squints at Connor and the recognition that flits across his face is a visible thing, his throat working in obvious fear as sweat begins to collect at the man’s forehead. Still, he begins to bluster like he’s got the upper hand. “It’s you! The hellhound that brought forward the fall of humanity! Begone foul creature!”

Connor does not flinch but the words still hurt nonetheless, especially when coupled with how the people nearest to him shuffle away in trepidation. It makes him want to leave, to hide, but also stay and fight. Paradoxal and discomfortable, he identifies an insistent prompt to shove the man back at making him feel this way, resolutely reappearing when he dismisses it. But he qwells the urge because he has appearances to keep up—a job to do. The world is watching and Conor cannot afford to let his newly found emotions run wild. “I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist your current actions immediately. It is causing a disturbance and if you continue then I’ll be inclined to bring the police into this.”

The man blanches and finally lets go of Josh, turning to the crowd. “See how this demon threatens? Just as he has brought forth the age of retribution, he tries to stifle the word of God.” He bends down to snatch up his pamphlets but decides not to try and pass them out in front of him. A sensible choice despite his final words, “None are safe while they walk this Earth! Heed my warning, good people!”

Connor watches him as he leaves and then turns to the crowd. “There is nothing to see here. I advise you all to continue with your day. Soliciting is prohibited in this area.”

For a moment he wonders if his command will be followed. As advanced as he is, the odds are against him with the number of potential assailants surrounding him, and while he is less inclined to use force, the same might not be the same for the dissatisfied humans. He is reconstructing an escape route when the first of the crowd disperse. One by one, the others follow suit—unhappy, but nonviolent. A man spits on the pavement at his feet.

Josh lets out a sigh of relief when they are finally alone. “Thank you for that."

“Did you do something to permit their attempted attack?” As soon as he’s said it, he wants to take it back. It’s a line from one of his many interrogative scripts and implies the notion that the person spoken to had done something preemptively to initiate a crime. It is not something you say to someone who’s just been publicly harassed. “That was rude of me. I apologize.”

Josh merely waves away his concerns, not offended in the slightest as he goes about dusting off the last of the dirt and righting his shirt. A quick scan has Connor detecting no superficial injuries. "I was alone and an easy target. This soon after the revolution, I should've expected it. What about you? Why are you out?”

“I am meeting Hank at…” He grimaces. “Chicken Feed.”

Josh laughs and it makes something inside curl unpleasantly, which he quickly pinpoints as envy. Connor still struggles to determine how and when to laugh, every attempt in the mirror not as nearly as successful as he'd like it to be even with his state-of-the-art social programs. It makes him think that perhaps Amanda was lying, that he wasn’t made for deviancy and it is negatively affecting his software. 

"Humans struggle with change more with what they eat than a revolution."

It's a joke and Connor’s stress decreases. He’d worried that his attachment to Hank might be a problem to other androids, that it would be another mark against his already defiled record, and that Markus’s acceptance wouldn’t extend to the rest of Jericho. Connor makes a list and happily adds Josh to it, right below Markus.

_[MISSION: OBTAIN THE SUPPORT OF JERICHO LEADERS]_

“Would you like to accompany me partway?” Connor asks. “The chance of spontaneous conflict drops with the increase of numbers.”

“You’ve already helped me as it is. I don’t want you going out of your way.”

“You’re heading back to Woodward church, correct?” The android nods. “It’s on my route, so there’s no trouble.”

The other’s shoulder slump and the half smile he gives is one of barely concealed relief; it leads Connor to believe that today’s occurrence is not an isolated incident. He sets a reminder to ask Hank to persuade Captain Fowler to address public demonstrations against androids more actively. “Then yes, I’d appreciate the company.”

They step back onto the sidewalk, assimilating into the crowds of the midday rush. There aren’t a lot of androids out today, probably tucked away in one of the many pocket shelters surrounding Jericho’s new headquarters, and as such the two garner quite a few stares as they cross the street. Josh no longer retains his LED but Connor does and it is a heavy indicator to every passerby that the blood they bleed is revolutionary blue.

"If you don't mind me asking, why are you out by yourself?"

"I was meeting with an android I knew at the university." A quick search of the surrounding area within a three mile radius of where they had met and a conditional probability test has Connor surmising that the university in question was Wayne State. Combing through the public records offered off the university’s site confirms Josh’s position as a lecturer prior to 05/07/2035 when a missing property claim was submitted to local authorities. "Many of our people were taken to camps but some managed to hide with the help of humans. I wanted to see for myself if that was true.”

Josh adjusts the watch around his wrist and it’s a peculiar accessory to have, given that all androids are equipped with a cesium clock in their cerebral core. The object must have sentimental value, Connor surmises, a gift maybe. 

“Did you find what you wanted?”

Josh sighs. (The question is received negatively and dropping Connor’s chance at integration.) “No. None of the previous androids that I remember were there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’ll keep searching until I find out what happened to them.” His eyes flicker away and catch the eyes of a young woman attempting to take their picture, who quickly jerks in surprise at being caught and ducks into an ice cream shop. “What about you? Have you found what you wanted?”

“I am not searching for anyone.” A lie, but one Connor can’t rectify. He would like to search. He remembers seeing the two Tracis at the church before the march, couldn’t force himself to speak to them or the AX400 and the YK500 he’d seen huddled on the bench guarded by the TR400. He wonders what became of them and reconstructs a situation where they live.

“Everyone is searching for something.”

He stops once when they reach the corner. The church is one direction and Hank in the other. Their conversation has reached its end and Connor has only one chance to express his wants before the opportunity slips away. "I want to help androids, but haven’t found a way."

His current predicament is worse than his time as a machine; Jericho is in plain sight, but still out of his reach. Connor wants to help, to do what he didn’t during the revolution, but it’s extremely difficult to do that when he’s barred every step of the way.

More than anything he wants to find a way _ in_.

"I'm sure you have much to offer…" Here Josh stalls and it is something physical between them, like the red wall but a cage that keeps Connor out instead of caging him in. "Things are still difficult at Jericho. It will take time for everyone to come to terms with what's happened."

He speaks of something more than the revolution. Yes, they had lost many to the fight for freedom and relations to humans were still dubious, especially with the mistreatment they suffered under their once owner’s hands so fresh, but that is not the only thing that keeps his people distant. Connor himself had been on the wrong side of the barrel more often than not and if there’s one thing that he knows it’s that androids do not forget. The Deviant Hunter will be ingrained in history alongside every other hand that had tried to shoot the revolution dead. 

Face carefully blank, Connor nods. “Of course. I understand.”

“I'll speak to Markus. Just be patient.” He offers him a reassuring smile that Connor can’t tell is genuine or not. “Your time will come.”

Then he leaves and Connor is alone once more.


	6. December 21, 2038

Connor receives a message one afternoon. 

It's not entirely out of the usual. Occasionally, Markus will message him with updates on their people or progress on political talks with the city or even just to ask Connor how he is. It makes Connor feel included in a way that he usually doesn’t; he knows that the revolutionary leader is busy, busier than anyone and just as important, but there’s something significant in the notion that he still makes time for the RK800. Like Connor is more than his past and is someone worthy of a second chance.

However, what is unusual is the request that follows the message. A request to meet.

Connor does not question it. Simply fills Sumo’s bowl, pets the dog and, promising to return soon, sets off to Woodward Church. He does not have money of his own to call a taxi and had promised to keep expenses on Hank’s debit card to a reasonable amount, so he decides to walk. Making sure to change into the clothes Hank had spontaneously bought him after his own failed attempt at shopping, ignoring everything patterned and deciding on a simple sweater and a hooded jacket, he sets out. 

New Jericho—as it’s being called now by the masses, a torch to the freighter that had been a haven in a world filled with strife—is a far cry from the old, abandoned church that Connor remembers. In the mid-morning light, he can see where the walls have been wiped down, where the paint is cracking and need to be scraped off and reapplied; the temporary reconstructed skeletons are still visible in some parts of the building, but it’s less of a abandoned building and more of a potential headquarters.

Josh had told him where to go and Connor bypasses the lingering androids in the main entryway, cutting through the main chapel. He ignores the silence and stares that precedes him and keeps his face passive until he’s reached the small staircase on the left side of the room, climbing them until he reaches the second story.

While the ground floor is filled with androids, the second is near empty. Connor passes a door of a room with no flooring, and he gazes down at the androids and watches them interact. They talk quietly amongst themselves, offering shoulder touches and reassuring smiles, familiar with one another in a way that only comes from shared experiences. When the sight leads to unwanted stalling in his processor Connor resumes his path, heading straight to the room on the far end of the hallway. He hears muffled voices the closer he gets, all of which stop the moment he knocks.

The door opens and Josh’s face is as open and calm as ever, welcoming him in. “You made it.”

He steps into the room, taking in the high ceiling and the extended half round windows. The space is as barren as the rest of the church, a long table that’s covered in scratches and wear at its center and four bulky crates hidden under some tarp pushed against the far left wall next to a thick rope climbing through a channel that Connor surmises leads to the building’s bell tower.

“Connor,” Markus greets him like it has only been a day since the revolution that they’ve seen each other, body remaining lax even as his companions straighten in alertness. He lays against a bin set atop the table, legs hanging off the edge and hand clasped delicately in Simon’s; the casualness of his body language is at odds with the fact that his chest chassis is wide open, pulsing red. “It’s good to see you.”

He tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Hello, Markus.”

North interrupts before any other pleasantries could be exchanged. Her arms are crossed and her brows furrowed, obviously upset. “Let's focus. He’s been overworking himself and because of it, he’s having a malfunction.”

“A short stasis and I’ll be fine.”

Connor’s focuses on the notification his basic scan offers him. “You’re running at fifty-six percent capacity.”

“We know,” North grounds out. "That’s why we called you here."

A last resort.

Connor carefully comes closer to Markus and Simon and offers his hand. “With your permission, I can start a thorough scan of your systems.”

He sees how the others grimace at the offer, obviously preferring that no interfacing be involved. Connor understands where they are coming from; it was only so long ago that he was the enemy, sent to terminate the very android that they surround, and having him get so close must cause some friction. But even so, they say nothing when Markus accepts his hand, trusting his decision when their skin peels back.

_ >CONNECT TO RK200 #684 842 971-1 _

_ >RUN SYSTEM CHECK_

_ [SCANNING...] _

Connor disconnects, blinking at the data that is still compartmentalizing across his HUD. “I’ve discovered two errors. An interruption in thirium flow that could be the cause of your impaired recognition functions and a faulty biocomponent within your chest cavity for the low battery charge.”

“A simple fix,” Markus says.

“You’re lucky. If you waited any longer, your battery could have depleted entirely.”

There’s a quick intake of breath from Josh, done the same time North’s hands curl into fists and Simon makes to close his eyes.

Markus frowns, less shaken than he should be at the possibility of permanent shutdown. “That shouldn’t be a problem. I was able to find and replace my parts when I was thrown into the graveyard.”

“Some parts, yes, but not all of your internal biocomponents are compatible with older models. A few of your components require a better fit because of your specialization. Your makeup more closely matches mine in that regard.” He noticed the curious glances of the others. “The RK200 was supposed to be the first of the next generation of androids. Markus is a prototype. We share some basic features and most likely our core programming.”

North bares her teeth. “CyberLife was going to replace all of us. Typical.”

Connor thinks of his own replacement that would’ve been waiting for him once he succeeded his mission. For once he agrees with North’s distaste but decides not to comment. Instead, he asks, “You said you managed to acquire parts from Cyberlife?”

“Raided them until the day of the revolution.”

He frowns. There’s a slim possibility Cyberlife began manufacturing the upgraded parts, an even slimmer one that Jericho managed to acquire some in their raids, but he doesn’t count on it. Their best bet would be to search disposed prototypes. “And the graveyard?”

That gives them pause, more than one of them shifting with obvious discomfort at the reference to the old android dumping ground. It's Simon who finally comes forward with an answer, pursing his lips as he does. "Some deviants are uncomfortable with the thought of… scavenging. Many now see it as disrespectful unless permission was given prior to shutdown."

"But you have scavenged parts anyway, don't you." It may be phrased like a question, but Connor already knows the answer. There's no way these three would let their leader fall to a simple malfunction. “May I see them?”

With a subtle nod from North, Josh leads Connor to one of the crates. When uncovered, the Cyberlife logo stares back at them, looking out of place in such a dingy environment. But the parts are in good shape despite needing to be cleaned of thirium and other solvents, organized alphabetically and easily sifted through as he conducts his search. Within seconds his scanners focus on a small module settled in the corner, barely visible under the grime. 

_ [BIOCOMPONENT # 8457d] _

_ [STATUS: COMPATIBLE] _

He picks up the part. "We are lucky. One of the androids you scavenged from was a newer model."

Josh squints at the small piece, likely analyzing it. "It looks the same as all the others."

"That is the point, yes. But if you look closely you can see that the radius is a quarter of a millimeter wider and it starts bending at a hundred and seventy-one degrees and not a hundred and seventy-point-ninety-three." He returns to Markus, not hesitating in shoving his hands into the fray of wires that frame the android's thirium pump. It is a perfect fit in the empty space and he begins connecting the plastic tubing to the piece. "A biocomponent from an older model, say an AX400, would still have fit but it would need eventual replacement because of surface failure."

Markus shifts his head so that Connor can access the back of it, but remains quiet. He's compliant and calm as well as anyone would be with their insides open for anyone to see. His stress levels indicate the slight discomfort.

“You seem to know a lot about how Markus works.” There’s no quelling how suspicious those words sound. “What, did CyberLife give you the schematics to his model before sicking you on him?”

Markus blinks rapidly when Connor realigns the tubing, the flow of thirium no longer stalled. “Your systems will clear out the excess thirium in a matter of hours,” he tells the android before turning back to North. “No, I know because we are of the same series. Just as he is the first of the 200 models, I am the fifty-ninth iteration of the 800 models.”

“So there might be more of you somewhere?”

“Most likely.” Connor glances at the female android before turning back to Markus’s open chest. “They wouldn’t be functional, so you don’t have to worry. We were a continuous model of prototypes—permanency was never a priority to our creators—one was always on standby on the chance that its predecessor failed in its mission, but I assume that all my previous versions have been disposed of as soon as they failed their mission. As for any successors, well, they’ve all probably been decommissioned in the wake of the revolution lest someone realize their connection to deviancy. As such, I have outlived all my counterparts by weeks."

Simon looks sad. “That’s horrible.”

It is horrible—to be the last in a long line of replacements, discarded once deemed useless. He feels his face contort but cannot see what expression it holds. “There’s nothing we can do about what’s already done. They're scrap metal now.”

It is the wrong choice of words.

"Just scrap metal?” North says, her voice pitching up in anger.

Connor pauses and looks up. There is a weight to the looks he receives, nearly identical to Amanda's when he had informed her of a failure, all pressed lips and furrowed brows. Judgement, he identifies quickly. It does not sit well with his circuits and he wants to change, to be better, to explain why he deserves this second—third—fourth chance. 

"None of my fifty predecessors had ever become deviant and they lived just as they died—a machine. They were simply bodies, made to serve a purpose and house whatever version of my core memories CyberLife deemed fit to transfer. To say otherwise would be misguided." There's a _ click _ as the biocompenent finally configures into place and a small _ hiss _ when the air depressurized to adjust the new part in the system. "As inconsiderate as it sounds, the graveyard has its uses—we are a people made, not born, and it is on the back of machines that give us the opportunity to be here now. Approximately twenty percent of androids are of a discontinued series and recycling parts will help them a lot more than the machines that will never know freedom.” 

The chasm of Markus' chest closes as he steps back, the plastic chassis hidden underneath synthetic skin once more. There's leftover thirium staining his fingertips, but Connor makes no move to clean it—idly, he thinks about the irony of having Markus' blood on his hands.

“Congratulations," he says. "It’s a perfect fit.”


End file.
